The Art of Conversations With a Ghost
by sara-cupcaked
Summary: Some people call them nightmares. She calls them hauntings. Sara-centric, GSR.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Huge thanks (as usual) to Keegan, my brilliant beta.

--

**1**: the seat of life or intelligence: **soul**.

--

Sara Sidle sees ghosts.

They're not transparent with torn, bloody dresses or gaping wounds. They don't float aroundwith their feet an inch above the ground nor do they follow her obsessively into the shadows.

Instead, they linger, seeping into her pores to draw up filmy memories.

Her ghosts are, essentially, the memories that she will never forget.

The first time she _saw_ was when she was waiting outside Ward 324 for her mother. She still had her bloodstained black boots on, and the hospital was a welcome familiarity with its sterile white walls and wood panelling and shiny steel surfaces.

It looked the same, smelt the same, but everything was different.

She made a face on the steel cart behind her green chair, sticking out her tongue and baring her teeth, which was kind of hard to do simultaneously. She saw two narrowed brown eyes, a warped nose and lots of gum and teeth.

She also saw _him_.

Her grin faded and she turned around quickly, heart pounding in her ears.

"What's wrong, Sara?" asked the nice woman who took her from her house, turning away momentarily from her quiet conversation with the nurse with subdued eyes.

She shook her head quickly, keeping herself from turning back behind. "Nothing."

It really was nothing, or maybe it _was_ everything, because for the first time ever, she noticed that her eyes were the exact shade as her father's.

--

You can be anything you want, her Harvard professor tells, a brain surgeon, an engineer, a rocket scientist.

I was thinking…quantum physics? she muses aloud, sticking the edge of her pen into her mouth and leaving perfect half-moon marks in its soft plastic.

Dr. Hennigan just smiles. Then there's a lecture I think you'd be interested in.

So on a sunny Thursday morning, she walks into Hall 3 and into Introduction to Forensic Science instead of Application of Quantum Physics.

Embarrassed, she is halfway out the hall when something catches her attention.

"Crime scene investigators are a victim's last voice."

She turns around and hovers by the back, half-intrigued, half-apprehensive.

"They bring justice to those who can no longer speak for themselves."

Curiosity takes over the apprehension, so she settles down in an empty seat, clasping her hands over her bag.

_Five minutes. _

"They, literally, speak for the dead while dealing with science."

A shiver runs down her spine, and she reaches into her bag to draw out a pristine notebook to pen down her thoughts.

_Science and ghosts? _

"Welcome to the world of crime scene investigators."

--

In her line of work, it's no wonder new ghosts start to follow her.

They're never full-bodied, just flashes of features and memories that play behind her eyes. They never speak or show any initiative to make contact, and there are triggers that allow her to _see_.

Her father appears when she has one too many beers to drink, when her eyes are brown tinged red.

Pamela appears whenever religious jewellery is involved, even as her body lies breathing in Haven View Centre, not here but not really _there_ either.

Suzanna appears when she's at her lowest point, when she's at a loss with herself.

Cammie appears seemingly at random, in the layout room, at a wine shop, in the window of a garish neon casino.

And some ghosts are nameless, residue from the cases where abused women are never identified and lost children never found.

--

They come and go, like flashes of sunlight on a cloudy day.

They don't scare her; her ghosts are not like how they portray them in Hollywood. They unnerve her, but she usually wills them away and concentrates on the tangible until they fade away.

Beer helps too, as long as she stays away from mirrors.

They only scare her at night, when the world is dark and her room is silent and empty. She wakes in cold sweat, shaking on the creased sheets, sometimes on the floor.

They don't frighten her because they're covered with blood or have slit throats. They scare her because they show her what _could_ have been.

It started back after her father's death, with images of her father with his brown eyes and short hair at the dinner table, all smiles and all sober as he talked to her mother about his twelve-step program.

She still sees him in her sleep sometimes, along with the others.

Pamela and Tom watching a musical, his arm comfortably around her shoulders as she leans into him with a serene smile.

Suzanna at prom, in a knee-high baby blue dress with ruffles at the hem, laughing with her girlfriends.

Cammie and Corey at the park taking Fin for walks, a little girl with her mother's thick brown hair and her father's kind eyes, the picture of a perfect American family.

People (child psychiatrists in particular) called them _nightmares_.

She calls them hauntings.

--

"Griss?"

He's leaning against the headboard, absorbed in a hardcover book and she's at the foot of the bed, burrowing her socked toe into the soft carpet.

"Mmm?" he asks, looking up, his reading glasses perched endearingly on his nose.

They've been seeing each other for three months now, and are about to embark on a new milestone in their relationship – sleeping in the same bedroom throughout the night.

Together.

She settles on the edge of the bed, running her palms over the incredibly familiar cotton sheets. "I…get these nightmares sometimes. I just wanted to let you know that in case I kick you in the middle of the night, it's nothing personal."

A small smile finds its way on his lips but his eyes are worried. He places the book away, and beckons her to the middle of the bed, which she complies. "What are they about?"

She rests her head against his shoulder and struggles to find an answer. "I don't remember most of them," she says, twisting the truth into something that tastes like a lie.

Holding her breath, she waits for the moment he sees through her cracked exterior, for him to realise there is something extremely wrong with her.

It doesn't come, at least not today, and he places a warm palm at the back of her neck, and speaks three simple words:

"I'll be here."

She turns her head to the side and into his pyjama top, which smells of clean detergent and something so intricately him that she unwittingly breathes in deep, branding this memory of him deep inside her consciousness.

Maybe happy memories can become ghosts too, a different kind of company to keep in the dying light.

"Thank you," she says softly into thick cotton, so silently she doesn't think he can hear or feel the syllables on his skin.

Like a ghost.

--

"Sara!"

The scene dissolves from view as her eyes open quickly, breaths coming out in unsteady intervals. Matted hair frames pale cheeks and it's incredibly cold, even under the blanket.

She turns to face him, worry etched all over his features, apparent even in the darkness of the room.

"Hey," she says shakily, flashing a weak smile. _Calm down, calm down._

When his eyes are still frozen over with quiet concern after several heartbeats, the smile fades and she leans over."I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"Of course not," he murmurs, reaching over to feel her forehead. "Are you all right?"

"It's nothing to worry about," she says, brushing away his hand with her own.

"You're freezing," he says, curling his fingers around hers.

"Bad circulation," she replies with a shrug, feeling her heart race inside her ribcage from the remnants of the vision.

_Please drop this, please drop this_.

"Can we go back to sleep?" she asks nonchalantly, looking him straight in the eye.

His eyes never leave hers as vivid blue cuts through a thick blackness, as if attempting to seek out the truth.

"Please?" she breathes, turning away to lie down, seeking solace and silence in the sheets though she knows that sleep will evade her for the rest of the night.

Beside her, he finally does the same, and his hand never leaves hers. It's minutes and minutes later, maybe even hours when she hears him whisper into the blanket, half-asleep, "What do you see?"

_Everything_, she mouths but he hears nothing but quiet breathing.

--

He asks subtly, over the weeks, about her nightmares, but she always smiles and reassures him.

_It__'__s nothing. _

When he raises an eyebrow in silent question, she steps away from the counter and brings her palms to the side of his face before looking him straight in the eye.

_Don__'__t worry._

He casts his eyes downwards and she drops her palms, stepping closer.

_Trust me._

He meets her eyes again, and his gaze cuts and settles somewhere so deep she's almost afraid he can see _them_.

Finally he nods, and equal parts of relief and dismay course through her. No one ever sees them the way she can, and it leaves her feeling a degree more unbalanced than a heartbeat ago.

She smiles, turning her attention back to slicing apples for their Waldorf salad as he walks over to check on the pastry of the mushroom pie.

When has she become such an expert liar?

_It__'__s nothing_ is a lie because all these ghosts, all these 'nightmares' are part of her, and they, to an extent, define her. It's everything.

_Don__'__t worry_ is also a lie because he has every reason to worry. What kind of person, let alone _scientist_, sees ghosts? He, she, _they_, should worry.

And the biggest lie of all: _Trust me_. She can't think of two other words that hold more untruths, except for _I__'__m fine_.

"You okay?" he asks from across the room while uncorking a bottle of port wine, watching her still figure and ridged spine.

There's a beat before she whirls around with a glass bowl of salad with apples and walnuts in hand, and with glowing cheeks, bright eyes, and an old-fashioned apron tied around her waist, she looks like the perfect image of herself…

…except not.

_I__'__m fine._

--

Sara Sidle can see ghosts, but on a sweltering afternoon in May, she speaks to one.

--

**TBC**

--


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Much thanks to my beta extraordinaire, Keegan. 

--

**2****:** a disembodied soul; _especially_**:** the soul of a dead person believed to be an inhabitant of the unseen world or to appear to the living in bodily likeness.

--

It would have been the most beautiful night she has ever seen in Nevada if not for the twisted metal anchoring her to the desert floor.

A full moon glows in the thick, icing-spread darkness. No garish neon lights, no artificial paradise. It's just her, a wrecked Mustang and the moon.

Her father used to say the moon glows because the ghosts need to find their way back home.

Her mother used to say don't listen to your father when he's drunk.

She lies on her stomach, the glass cutting into fabric and flesh, and squeezes her eyes shut because it's infuriating to be thinking about _them_ and not the things and people that make her happiest.

The stillness in the air reminds her of Pamela's ward: air so cold it chills her to the bone, sterile scents wafting around them and the overbearing silence.

_Please go away._

There was a full moon in the sky when she followed behind the body bag that held Cammie's body.

Svetlana's TOD was between two to four a.m., around the time it is now.

It's claustrophobic under the car, and as the memories swirl up from the recesses of her mind, she gasps, fighting for air around her so fast it burns her throat. The rain starts to pour outside, lashing out on top of her and sears her skin as it pools around her.

Suzanna's tears as she turned to face her, shame and fear burning in her eyes.

She's drowning, but in water or in memories, she's not sure.

It's a wet, messy blur; she's irrational and crying and headstrong and _so _not ready to say goodbye, in spite of everything, so she does what she does best: fight.

--

At first the heat is welcoming, warming everything with its nearly tangible strands as far as the eye can see. But like everything in Vegas, even the heat is extreme. There's no in-between, no welcoming grey. It burns pale skin and imbibes moisture from wet sand.

And so she walks, up dusty slopes, on level ground, over jagged rocks. Over parched plants and coloured fliers from Tangiers and Planet Hollywood and fine, milky white bones.

She walks, because each laboured foot forward is a step further away from the wreck, the ghosts and closer to any place but there.

"Four times five is twenty."

Left foot.

"Four times six... is twenty-four."

Right foot.

"Four times four is... what is it? Sixteen. _Sixteen._"

Left foot.

She shakes her head lightly and a humourless laugh bubbles from deep inside. How to forget sixteen?

_Not-so-sweet sixteen, sixteen blocks from our place to his __favourite__ café, sixteenth of September, sixteen books left on my 'books to read before I die' list. _

Right foot.

A shadow on the dusty ground catches her blurry eyes, and she turns quickly to catch a flash of brown hair disappearing into the wind. She just stands there, feeling the sun beat down on her, blinking sand from her vision.

"Hello?"

A shiver runs from her spine right to her knees, amidst the scorching sun.

_Natalie has brown hair. _

She continues on, feeling the fear rise and she's suddenly more lost and disorientated than ever. It's a stretch for Natalie to be lying in wait behind a boulder or shrub, but then again, being kidnapped and posed under a few tons of metal sounds absurd too. She whips her head around to see nothing but endless desert terrain and blinding sunlight.

"Just keep going, don't stop."

Right foot.

"Don't stop."

Left foot.

"Don't stop, Sara."

Stumble.

"Stop following me!" she screams into the desert wind, and tiny grains of sand embed themselves into her sore throat but she doesn't feel a thing because all her nerves, every one of her senses are under assault and her world is spinning and burning up in the middle of this Nevadan desert.

"It's me," the soft voice says gently, and she turns around to see a person standing in the blinding sunlight, and for three seconds, she doesn't breathe.

It's Cammie.

"Hello," she says cautiously, kneeling down in front of her in camel-coloured sweats. She has her hair in a loose ponytail; her eyes lined with coal and her throat an expanse of smooth white skin.

Sara exhales loudly, trying to keep her stomach from convulsing from the shock and fear. Her vision keeps tilting; everything is spinning in garish Technicolor, and Cammie's face swims in and out of focus. "You're not supposed to be here."

She smiles, utterly ethereal and beautiful. "The same can be said about you. You're safe now, okay? You're safe now."

She can feel herself losing consciousness, and she fights for control over her body. "That sounds familiar," she says hazily as the words trip over her tongue.

Cammie tightens her grip around her fingers. "It's going to be okay."

She wants to shake her head, but that in itself is too much effort and murky darkness takes the place of brilliant sunlight as her eyes close even though there are too many things to say. I'm sorry for everything, she wants to say, but there's no more energy left except to breathe. I'm sorry for holding the hand of your murderer, I'm sorry for not being able to save you. I'm so sorry for everything.

"Sorry," she rasps, clinging onto her hand. "I'm so sorry."

Cammie might be screaming or staying silent or this may all be an illusion created by her confused mind, because just like that, it's over. No white light, no overwhelming fear, no divine sense of peace.

It's like tipping over an edge, its top bright, its bottom endless. It's a balancing act, and all her life she's been balanced, if not just slightly off-centre, but now she falls and all the light in the world is gone.

--

An obscured word dances in her vision, and as she blinks and inhales and blinks, feeling void and weightless, it comes into focus and she exhales loudly, clouding over the oxygen mask.

_Grissom. _

She lifts her eyes to his, and the world and everything else is balanced once more. His eyes are so bright and wide and relieved and sad that it makes the only part of her that doesn't hurt, her heart, ache.

He smiles, a tiny smile that makes her think of a pearly-pink seashell surrounded by plastic bottles and broken shoes and fallen sandcastles in the middle of a beach; the rush of having a suspect spend life behind bars after convicting him of first degree murder of his wife and three kids during New Year's Eve.

It's bittersweet.

She starts to smile, but then she catches sight of _her_ sitting next to Grissom, her dusty sweatpants touching the edge of his dark slacks, and the smile dies on her lips because all she can hear is her voice, sweet and calming and light.

It's the voice of a dead person.

"She's here, she's right next to you!"

He doesn't acknowledge her but tightens his grip around her hand and she realises that all he can hear is the helicopter's engine and see the condensation of her words in the mask.

"Honey, you're safe now. We're going to Desert Palms in less than a minute," he says, voice raw yet breathless.

She shakes her head quickly, causing the icepack to slip off her forehead. The panic in her eyes is clear as she struggles to pull off the oxygen mask while her frantic words keep melting against the plastic.

"She's right there, why can't you see her?"

Grissom looks calmly at the medical technician, but his palm is freezing and slick in hers. The blonde medical technician holds the icepack firmly in place on her forehead, and speaks into the microphone connected to his earpiece.

"ETA is thirty seconds; ten milligrams of Diprivan at arrival, patient is distressed."

"She can't hurt you now," he says gently, but his calm is slipping along with her frame of mind. Cammie's staring at her from the corner of her eye, looking petrified.

"I'm not talking about Natalie!"

The helicopter shudders and the doors fly open as he's pushed aside and she looses grip on his hand, the last thing that reminds her of yesterday. A nurse materialises and slips a needle into the top of her hand as a flurry of people push her through swinging doors and into an antiseptic world of blinding lights.

The last thing she sees is Grissom in the confined helicopter, sitting amongst all the medical equipment and discarded medical paraphernalia as her vision dissolves by its edges and the calm sets in.

He's alone.

--

**TBC**

**--**

**A/N2: **I know that post-Living Doll/Dead Doll fics have been written over and over, but I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **As usual, thanks to Keegan!

--

**3:** "Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind."

_- Jim Morrison_

--

It's been a day and a half of the scent of pine cleanser and bleach and fear and death.

A day and a half since she has last seen him.

A day and a half since she has last seen her.

It gets easier to believe, as each hour passes by, that the apparition of a ghost is nothing but her tired and dehydrated mind projecting illusions. She even has science and medicine to back her up:

_Physical and emotional exhaustion can induce hallucinations by blurring the line between sleep and wakefulness._

There's a large part of her that silently berates herself for overreacting, for actually _believing_ that Cammie was really there. At the same time, a tiny, tiny part tells her that science does not, and will never be able to, explain certain things.

Science doesn't explain ghosts; science leaves no place for the existence of ghosts. But somewhere deep within a niche of her rational mind, there's a flaw in her reasoning because no matter how much she relies on the gas chromatography-mass spectrometry or believes in the Law of Conservation of Mass, she still believes in the existence of ghosts.

And there is a fact that is terrifying and on the verge of incomprehensible, a fact that's she's only starting to understand: sometimes science isn't enough.

--

The doctors ask her the same question every day, once before her breakfast, once after her lunch and twice in the nights, before and after dinner.

"Any hallucinations today?"

The answer is always no, and it's followed with the same question each and every time asked:

"Can I see him yet?"

The answer never varies either.

"Not yet, but soon. You're still very susceptible to infections."

She fights the urge to roll her eyes every time after that reply, because it's blatantly obvious what the doctors think about her state of mind. By the way they and the nurses look at her, she's surprised she's still in a room with EKG machines and shiny tiles instead of attending group therapy in a straightjacket.

"How are you feeling today?"

Looking up from her dinner of gelatin and a cup of warm water, she answers the question without even thinking. It's automatic, like breathing or blinking.

"I'm fine."

--

It's day two in the hospital when the monotony is shattered.

When the nurse exits her room with the remnants of her lunch – an empty container of gelatin and an apple core, she's left alone in the cold room once more.

She starts to run her fingers across the bandages around her ribs, rough and stiff to the touch. There's a smell to them, like rubbing alcohol and wet plaster.

_Everything here smells like death._

"Hey," someone says suddenly at the foot of her bed. "Please don't scream," the voice whispers, and she very nearly does as she lifts her eyes to see Cammie.

"I wanted to apologize, for that day in the helicopter. I didn't mean to frighten you," she says quickly, her eyes bright and apologetic.

Sara exhales loudly, causing her sore ribs to protest. "What kinds of hallucinogens are they giving me here?"

"You're not hallucinating."

Suddenly, she's afraid. More afraid than being shuffled from home to home, school to school, family to family. More afraid than being trapped under the car or wandering through the desert in triple digit temperatures.

"Then I'm crazy," she says calmly, pressing her back against the cool, plastic headboard.

"You're not crazy either, Sara."

She just blinks, trying to rid her vision of the medically induced…thing.

A wry smile forms on Cammie's lips. "You know what they say about seeing is believing…?"

"Then we're back to square one: this is all in my head and I'm hallucinating."

"You must understand that seeing is believing, but also know that believing is seeing. You believe in ghosts, don't you?"

The door swings open, and Dr. Lim walks in with his stethoscope, breaking the moment.

He picks up the clipboard from the foot of the bed, ready to resume their little routine of questions and monosyllabic answers.

"Any hallucinations, Sara?"

There's a beat, a sudden silence that causes the doctor to look around the room. She holds her breath, waiting for him to notice Cammie and call security. Instead, he turns back to look at her expectantly.

"No," she says simply, eying Cammie who is looking out from her window, staring down at Desert Palms' perfectly landscaped gardens.

Dr. Lim makes a note on his clipboard.

"Good."

--

"How are you feeling today, Sara?"

It's been three days since having seen Grissom and a day since seeing Cammie materialize right before her eyes, and for a moment, she's tired of lying.

"I…don't feel normal."

Dr. Lim frowns and presses his hand against her forehead briefly. "You don't have a fever; do you feel tightness in your chest or a burning sensation in your arm?"

"No," she says quickly shaking her head, "nothing hurts. It's just that I feel…different."

"It's understandable with the trauma you've sustained to feel 'different' compared to everyone else. You have to keep a positive mind, because this will all pass and you'll go back to work, back to your normal life."

She licks her chapped lips, tasting blood. "Right," she says with a nod, trying to imagine going back to work. All that comes to mind is more death, destruction, lies and a wrecked Mustang.

"I don't think I want to go back to work," she says quietly, and Dr. Lim looks up from his clipboard.

"Sorry?"

"You're right," she says, suddenly furious at herself, "this will all pass and I'll go back to work and everything will fall into place."

He hangs the clipboard back up with a resonating clang.

"That's the spirit."

--

On the fourth day, the man with slumped shoulders and tired eyes, the one pacing outside Room 1012, is finally allowed in.

He walks in silently, his still-dusty shoes covering the distance in quick strides. He's barely breathing as he kneels before her, on pristine white tiles with his dull blue eyes. She reaches out for him, yearning the feel and company of something more solid than ghosts and a touch more comforting than the one of a doctor.

He intertwines his fingers with hers quickly, and not a word is exchanged as he presses his lips to her raw fingers, soft but tinged with quiet desperation. He keeps his lips pressed to her flesh as his gaze takes in her arm encased in plaster, the gauzes over sunburnt skin, the steady drips of the IV.

A silence washes over them as he forgets to breathe and she, exhale. He drops his head to her side, pressing his face on the bed, and she starts to breathe again but it's terrifying to watch him at such a loss.

There are no words, there hardly ever are in their case, so she runs her fingers softly through his messy hair, feeling tiny grains of sand under the pads of her fingers.

She wants to laugh, to tease him about not leaving the hospital to change and take a quick shower but it makes her want to cry at the same time. It's weird, to have two emotions battling for her attention, each polar opposites of each other.

She doesn't know he is looking back at her until he leans in, smelling of sweat and sand and sweet sin, and kisses her softly on the cheek, over and over and over.

"A kiss for each hour you were gone," he murmurs, his voice cracking, and she laughs.

It's a deep, genuine laugh, one borne from happiness and relief and utter joy but she's weeping at the same time because for the first time in too long, she feels something more than the dull ache of her injuries and the monotony of breathing, in and out and back in again.

This is what feeling alive really feels like: the rush of happiness, the warmth of his skin on hers and something a lot like hate simmering beneath it all.

--

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Big thanks to Keegan for reading through this for me - and for listening to all my whining.

--

**4:** "Houses are not haunted. We are haunted, and regardless of the architecture with which we surround ourselves, our ghosts stay with us until we ourselves are ghosts."

– _Dean Koontz_.

--

"What happened in the helicopter?" he questions, his thumb stroking her open palm.

The happy buzz coursing through her fades into fidgety thumps of her heart, and she doesn't quite know how to answer his question without sounding as if she has lost her mind.

"Do you believe in ghosts?" she says finally, clenching her open palm.

He doesn't even need to answer her question because it's written all over his face; he just looks at her with the same questioning gaze that befalls rare insects or a particularly dense suspect.

She smiles, almost laughs. "Yeah, I know. But I saw Cammie in the helicopter. She was sitting right next to you. I knew it was her because she was with me in the desert too; she held my hand," she says, feeling the memory spill from chapped lips, "and I know I sound crazy because dead people don't come back to life, but she really was there."

Grissom exhales.

"I swear, Gil."

"You have to understand you were disorientated and dehydrated, even in the helicopter. Your eyes saw what your mind projected."

She's not shocked by his response, but the sting of disappointment still hurts.

"What if I told you I saw her yesterday? I'm not disorientated nor dehydrated any more," she says quietly.

"Maybe it was a dream. They do give patients at the hospital a cocktail of sleeping pills and painkillers, and that could explain her…her presence."

"I wasn't dreaming."

He sighs, and it's the only outward sign of him losing patience.

"I'm not a psychologist, but I do know that you've been through a lot of stress. If you need someone to talk to...."

She runs her tongue over her lips impatiently. "I'm talking to you right now, aren't I?"

There's a knock on the door, and a nurse she's never seen before sticks her head in. "Dr. Grissom, your visitation time is up. If you would follow me, please?"

He pushes himself to his feet, and it hits her that he's been kneeling the entire time, his eyes never leaving hers. "I don't know how to help you, Sara…you're still a scientist. Don't let Natalie take that from you."

It reminds her of the blast at the lab – the intense heat followed by the deafening blast and the complete and utter silence, all in the span of a second. His eyes, his words, and the aftermath of his sentence are all reminiscent of an explosion.

And just like after the blast, she's deaf but back then there were a million thoughts running through her head, some so loud they drowned out the silence, but this time, there's only one thought that runs through her mind.

It's not about Natalie; it never was about her because if you take away the hospital bed and the tubes in and around her body and the smell of rubbing alcohol, there are still only two people in the room – Grissom and her, and the topic of their conversation might be different if she hadn't been stuck under a car in the middle of Nevada but it still doesn't change the fact that they're two people who can't communicate, which brings her back to point one: it's not about Natalie.

"It's not about Natalie," she says to his back as he's about to walk out the door, her voice smothering, "it was _never_ about her."

--

The rest of the team visits her in the following days, and she sees him hovering outside the door each time one of them walks in. She never acknowledges him; he doesn't speak, not to her, not to the person walking in.

Nick's the first one who visits her, with his trademark smile and a plushy teddy bear.

"Hey," he says softly, but it doesn't conceal the way his voice very nearly breaks.

"Thanks for coming," she says with a smile as he places the light brown bear at the side of her pillow, a yellow ribbon tied to its neck.

He returns the smile shakily. "It wasn't your day to go."

This time his voice breaks, and he looks away as she looks down, swallowing hard.

"Yeah," she says, after a while, when he has regained his composure. "We're the lucky ones."

His eyes meander from the machines to her bulky plastic cast, and she can see his eyes cloud from the memories of his own time at the hospital.

"It gets easier. Things feel almost normal after a year…" A smile returns to his eyes, and she laughs.

"I hope you're kidding."

"Of course I am," he says easily, but she tucks this bit of information deep in her mind anyway. A year from now and she would be the same Sara Sidle.

_Yeah, right._

He leaves her with his trademark smile, minus a teddy bear in hand.

And as night falls, her mind goes over the conversation, and she questions herself repeatedly whether they really are the lucky ones, or the ones with the worst luck in the world.

--

Flowers arrive the next day, two full, beautiful bouquets of hydrangeas, deep red roses and sunflowers. A nurse places both by her bedside table, and she picks up a card from one of the bouquets, heavy and smooth, from in between two large sunflowers.

'_Two bouquets in our place are all we can offer as the Sheriff wanted us down at Reno for a case. We know it's not much, but we'll make it up to you. Get better soon! _

_Love, Brass and Warrick.' _

With a smile, she tucks the card under her pillow and time seems to pass by faster as she runs her fingers over the smooth petals of the sunflowers and breathes in the light, calming scent of the roses.

--

"Do you believe in ghosts?"

Greg looks up abruptly, and she keeps her face impassive.

"…Why?"

"Answer the question, Greg," she says, breaking into a smile, trying not to let him see how important his response back is to her.

He doesn't follow suit. "I believe there are some things that can't be explained," he says after a brief pause, and she swallows in relief. "Now answer my question: why do you ask?"

She looks into his eyes, and prays that he doesn't react like the other man she loves. "Because I think I see them sometimes."

He pales almost immediately, and she winces inwardly. "Sara…"

"Greg, I swear I'm not crazy. I get these nightmares, but they are not _really_ nightmares. I see people I'm not supposed to see, like Cammie Brookston. I don't know who to talk to without sounding crazy."

"You told Grissom?"

"Yeah," she says, turning away, "he…didn't take it in well."

"Not surprised," he says under his breath.

"I don't know what to do, Greg. I know I'm not crazy, but I know this isn't normal either."

"You're not crazy, Sara. My Nana Olaf could see. She did readings and séances when she was young. She stopped before I was born."

"Why?"

"She got tired of the ghosts," he says simply.

She sighs, turning to look out the window.

_I know what that feels like. _

"Do you have perfect eyesight?"

She turns back to him, her brow furrowed. "Yeah. Why?"

"Nana Olaf can't 'unsee' them, but when she takes off her glasses, they're as good as gone. Too bad you're not half-blind like her…"

She breaks into a half-smile, mirroring the one on his face.

"Mr. Sanders," a deep voice comes from the doorway, and she turns to see Dr. Lim standing by the door. "Your fifteen minutes are up; visitation times are over."

He gets up to leave, but she reaches out to take his hand in hers. "Thanks," she mutters softly, "for listening. For… understanding."

A flicker of something unreadable flashes across his eyes, but as soon as it's there it disappears, and he gives her hand a gentle squeeze. "He'll understand. Maybe not just yet, but soon."

"Bye," she says, letting go of his hand, feeling lighter for the first time in a long, long time.

--

"Hey."

When she sees Cammie this time, she hardly feels like having a heart attack any more. It's more like getting an aneurysm.

"It's you," she says finally, feeling her blood pressure settle back down to healthy levels.

She's dressed in simple jeans and a grey tee today, and she walks over to the foot of her bed. "You're healing quite nicely."

"I hope so; I can't wait to leave," she says, under her breath. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure," Cammie says, resting both palms on the top of her bed.

"It's not that I don't like you or anything, it's just I want to stop…seeing dead people."

"Ouch," she says, pressing a palm to her heart but she's all smiles. "It's easy. Stop believing in ghosts."

"…And how do I do that?"

"When you stop thinking about us, you'll stop seeing. Believing is also seeing, remember?"

"Right," she says, feeling a headache coming on.

"I'd like to stay, Sara, but you have a visitor," she says quickly, before vanishing.

The doorknob turns quickly, and Catherine enters with a bouquet of flowers, all smiles too.

"Hey, Sara."

"Catherine," she says, blinking rapidly from the sudden change of events. "Hey."

"I thought you'd be bored of all the flowers and 'get well soon' notes so I decided to bring you this."

She places the flowers by her bedside table, a whole bunch of lilies, and Sara eyes the card attached to the side with raised eyebrows.

"Aren't these flowers and a 'get well soon' card that you have right here?"

Catherine smirks. "Read the card, Sara."

Gingerly, she reaches out and pulls the cream card from the side of the bouquet.

'_Congratulations!'_

Her relationship with Catherine hasn't been all flowers and sunshine, but even this is callous and incredibly insensitive of her. She just looks up at the blonde, wondering whether to call security or ignore her completely.

"Open the card, silly."

'_I figured you'd be tired of all the same 'get well' wishes, so I thought I would congratulate you on your relationship with Grissom. It takes a special woman to lift his head out from under the microscope._

_Oh, and get well soon. :)_

_Catherine and Lindsey _

_PS: Lindsey only read the last sentence.'_

"The smiley face is, uh, cute. He told you guys?" she asks disbelievingly.

"Lindsey wrote that on our behalf," Catherine explains, "and yeah, he kind of blurted it out. Men," she says with a knowing shrug.

"Thanks," she says, feeling miffed but touched at the same time – a trait Catherine has down to an art.

"Took you guys long enough," Catherine adds, and Sara inwardly rolls her eyes with a smile on her face.

--

Day nine in the hospital, and she spends her time watching Grissom pace outside her room. She knows he doesn't know what to say if he comes in, and a small part of her is glad because she doesn't know what to say either, without sounding insane.

And the truth is that she's angry. She knows it's not his fault she's in here, nursing a fractured arm and dehydration and visions of ethereal beings, but it doesn't change Natalie's half-crazed words.

When she's not watching him and allowing her thoughts to linger on Natalie, the visits by the team run through her mind. Nick's advice, Greg's insight, Cammie's reasoning and Catherine's regards (smugness).

She knows she will get better soon. She's going to leave the hospital soon, her arm would heal, she would go back to work and in years to come, this would all feel more nightmarish than reality.

But things would still be different: her arm would ache, work would be different due to her incident and the news of their relationship, and maybe she'll never completely forget. Maybe she'll relive it, night after night, in her dreams.

And there are the ghosts. Cammie is more comforting than frightening, but she's tired of seeing them. She's tired of lying in bed, of reliving and over-analysing the night she was taken.

She's just… tired.

--

Ten and a half days into her hospital stay, and Cammie returns. This time, there's no heart palpitations, no raised blood pressure. She's almost expecting her when she materializes in the room.

"You're not surprised to see me," Cammie says, almost proudly.

Sara's looking down at her hands, and Cammie inches closer, her smile fading.

"Sara?"

"I think I know what I have to do," she says seriously, looking up from her hands. She's pale, but there's a look of set determination etched over all her features. "I know what I have to do to stop seeing ghosts."

--

**TBC**

**--**

**A/N2: **I hope this chapter met your expectations, because I don't like certain (okay, many) parts of it. I promise the next chapter will be better. Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Keegan - as always, thank you.

--

**5:** "Ghosts are a metaphor for memory and remembrance and metaphorically connect our world to the world we cannot know about."

_– Leslie What_

--

"Are you sure?" she asks softly, her voice faint like the moonlight flittering into her room through the blinds.

"No," Sara replies honestly, "but I don't know what else to do."

"I'm sorry."

She looks at Cammie, standing by the window, framed by the weak light of the moon, and for the first time, she actually looks like a ghost.

She gives her a half-shrug, reaching for the stationery (a notepad and a pen and pencil) Greg had brought her. "You can stay, if you want."

--

_Out in the desert, under that car that night, I realized something, and I haven't been able to shake it. _

He enters her room on the thirteenth day, his hands twisted together in tight knots, knuckles bone white. He thinks she's sleeping, and he sits quietly down at her side.

He's turning something in his hands that makes the slightest of sounds. She peeks from beneath her eyelashes, and makes out a delicate chain of some sort dangling from his hands.

His mother's rosary.

She sucks in a breath and watches him mouth memorized words into the dark room. His prayers are quiet, silent and almost comforting.

"Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things that I can and the wisdom to know the difference.

Amen."

The beads turn quietly in his hands as he repeats the prayer. She can feel Cammie watching him, and she's making the slightest of sounds as he recites the prayer over and _over_.

She's crying.

Sara just lies there in the dark, hearing Cammie's muffled sobs on one side, his smooth, quiet voice on the other.

And it makes her think – what can she change, and what can't _be_ changed? Her heart twists as he recites the prayer repeatedly, and it's cold comfort because she knows all the courage in the world would not make her decision any easier – for him or herself.

--

_Since my father died, I've spent almost my entire life with ghosts. We've been like close friends, and out there in the desert, it occurred to me that it was time for me to bury them. I can't do that here. _

He leaves before she 'wakes' on the fourteenth day, and she's left with Cammie.

"Are you okay?" she asks her, watching her wipe the tears off her cheeks.

"Corey said that same prayer for three months after my death, sometimes at my grave."

"You're buried here?"

"All six of us were buried side-by-side, just five blocks from here. Memorial Park."

A comfortable silence settles upon them, and finally, Sara speaks.

"Corey really loves you, you know?" Cammie looks up expectantly, and she elaborates. "I questioned him. He told me, and showed me pictures of Fin. He said he should have married you."

She laughs, but it's laced with sadness and regret, and she dips her head towards the door where he had just exited. "He loves you too."

"Grissom," she clarifies, and Sara smiles, but it's one that mirrors Cammie's.

"I hate thinking about it, but I keep thinking… it's his fault I'm here."

"It doesn't really matter though," Cammie says, speaking Sara's mind, "because you still love him."

"I'll always love him, but sometimes I wonder if that's more a good thing or bad."

--

_I'm so sorry. No matter how hard I try to fight it off, I'm left with the feeling that ...I have to go. I have no idea where I'm going, but I know I have to do this. If I don't, I'm afraid I'll self-destruct, and worse, you'll be there to see it happen. _

On the fourteenth day, she's released from the hospital and he's there to take her home.

He finally speaks when they're in the car; her safely buckled in the passenger seat next to him, bulky cast and all, him driving at least thirty miles below the speed limit.

"I'm sorry. For everything. We…we can talk at home."

She's still looking out the window, and she can feel Cammie's eyes burning into her back. And it's funny, because Cammie's appearance (and the very _thing_ she embodies) is the reason she needs to leave Vegas, but at the same time, Cammie's about the only thing holding her together.

It's like Cammie's her very own supernatural cast, keeping all the broken bits inside her together until she clears up her past; all the ghosts.

"Sara?"

She turns to him, and sees worry clearly displayed by his bone-white knuckles clutching the steering wheel.

_I'm not the only one trying to keep it together, here. _

"I'm going to be fine, Griss."

Cammie gives her shoulder a gentle squeeze, like a breeze, and for the first time since she was a child, she actually believes in those five words.

--

_Be safe. Know that I__ tried very hard to stay. Know that you are my one and only. I will miss you with every beat of my heart. _

They talk; he's unable to understand, she's frustrated to the verge of tears, he apologises, she turns away, he's at a loss and she pulls him to face her and kisses him, hard and fast.

She wants the feel of his lips branded on hers, the memory of the warmth of his skin on hers forever because she knows that each passing heartbeat takes her further and further away from him.

--

_Our life together was the only home I've ever really had. I wouldn't trade it for anything._

"Ready for work tomorrow?"

"What do you think?"

He wraps his arms around her waist, drawing her to him slowly. "I think you're tired of being cooped up at home."

"I actually like staying at home," she says, and his eyes widen instantaneously.

"Do you want to stay, though?"

For a moment, she's tempted to say yes. She can stay at home and write articles for journals with Cammie by her side. It would just be her at home, and a ghost if she's lucky. A company of them if she's not. Maybe Cammie would bring her friends, or her father might visit…

Unsurprisingly, it passes as swiftly as it comes.

"No thanks. I need work to keep…my mind busy."

--

_I love you. I always will. _

"Cammie," she whispers, and she's by her side almost instantly. "I don't know if I can do it. I don't want to leave it all behind."

"Can you face seeing your father again?" Cammie says, just as softly, "can you see him and honestly say you'll be all right? Because that's who you're going to see and_ be_ with, along with every single one of your ghosts."

She's quiet, and the silence tells Cammie everything she needs to know, and more.

"I…I just," she starts, and Cammie wraps her arms around her, but unlike the time in the desert, there's no warmth to her touch. She's freezing cold, just like a ghost. "I just love him. So much, you know?"

"Then do this for him, Sara."

For the first time since being trapped under the car, she weeps.

--

_Good-bye._

Her co-workers, her friends, her family, clap as she stands outside the break room, everyone beaming incandescently.

The letter burns through her jeans, through her skin, but she ignores it all and breathes in deep. Grissom's standing right behind her, nervous but apparently happy. She flashes him a smile, and he tilts his chin, urging her on.

She takes a cautious step in, with Grissom right by her heels.

She exhales, feeling the wisps of air leave her lips, and smiles.

"Welcome back!"

--

**END**

--

**A/N2:** This is technically the 'end' of the story, but I'm working on an epilogue that'll be finished soon. Sorry for the delay; I've been extremely busy these last few weeks. I hope this chapter is a satisfying end for the piece - thanks for reading!


	6. Epilogue

_Sixteen months later._

--

I've never been alone for more than five minutes in my entire lifetime. I grew up with three brothers, which meant an incredible amount of noise, dirt and hours of sports at an end. I had two best friends since kindergarten, and we were inseparable: we dieted together, tried on clothes in tiny cubicles together, binged on marshmallows and Tootsie Rolls together, spent an entire Spring Break on the road before reaching paradise: neon castles and flashy showgirls.

In Vegas, I lived with five other girls. They were more than just friends to me. We showered together to save on our water bill, shared meals together to save on our food bills, shared clothes and costumes just because we could. We shared lip gloss and fortune cookies and laughs. We were _family_.

It did get annoying at times, to be in the midst of changing when my brother (and at times, _brothers_) would just walk in with me in my underwear, or when I'm trying to sleep before an important audition to have four other girls laughing and gossiping on the other side of thin walls.

It was annoying, but I wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

And when I died, I didn't die alone either.

Sara Sidle was there.

--

Heaven is a funny place. We're all brought up to believe in pearly gates and fluffy white clouds and redemption, right?

Heaven isn't like that. It's like a giant apartment building, with wide open spaces in the place of different floors. There are dining floors and gym floors, but we don't need food or exercise; I think they're just there to remind us of our mortal past. Janie practically lived in the gym, and she spends all her time here up there too.

Me? I spend my time on the highest floor, which is the highest point in Heaven. It's like a surveillance room, modelled after those surveillance rooms found in Vegas casinos (Emily had a boyfriend who worked as a pit boss, so yeah, I do know what one looks like). Millions of monitors stretching as far as the eye can see, each separated into country, state, and finally, name.

I watch Fin's monitor most (United States of America; Nevada; Crowne, Annabelle), then my brothers' and parents'. You might be thinking, why watch them when I can actually _be_ right with them?

Not everyone can see a ghost, let alone converse with one. There would be no point following my parents around when they take their daily walk in the park, because I would be no more than a soft breeze or the falling of leaves from a tree to them.

Some people just cannot _see_, and my entire family consists of people like that. In some ways, it's heartbreaking – being so close to them, yet still too far. It takes a special person to see us, and when I found out Sara could not only _see_ but _communicate_ with us, I've realised that it's the worst kind of gift.

In other ways, I'm so happy that my family cannot see me, because I've seen what ghosts can do to a person. They might not be able to see and talk to me, but at least the past doesn't haunt them, like it does Sara.

--

After watching my eldest brother's daughter swim her fourteenth lap in the pool, I decide to watch Sara's monitor. I haven't seen her since that last time her taxi left for McCarren, and I'm curious as to how she's doing now.

She's now filed under United States of America, Washington.

Interesting.

She looks better – healthier. She's tan, and her hair touches the small of her back. There's a box in her hands, and she's laughing, her breaths coming out in white clouds, as she stumbles into a nice, medium-sized house with a man by her side.

I squint, and realise it's Grissom and I smile. He looks…different. I mean, he doesn't look different physically, and I can't quite pinpoint it, but I know something about him has changed. He has a larger box in hand, and they enter the house and out from the cold, followed by a boxer who obviously thinks he's still a puppy.

_So…what do you think? _he asks nervously as they walk into what would become the living room.

Sara places the box down and walks up to him, smiling. I've never seen a_ real_ smile on her before, and she has a gap between her front teeth. A little like Fin. _It's perfect. Nervous about tomorrow?_

He shakes his head. _The University of Washington has an excellent entomology department; they have their own butterfly farm and larvae-hatching centre. _The enthusiasm is thick in his voice, and I can't help but grin along with Sara.

A person can't learn to 'unsee' us ghosts, but there are other ways. I guess being content and well and _truly_ happy is one of them.

"Some things never change," a voice says to my side, and I turn to see a guy with the most incredible green eyes looking back at me. I nod with a grin and turn my attention back to the monitor, watching them explore the house.

It's a modestly sized house for two, and they're suggesting what room would be turned into what – study, library, guest bedroom; I actually laugh aloud when Grissom suggests _research station? _

The man beside me chuckles. "I'm so right."

_Are _you_ nervous about tomorrow?_ Grissom asks as they wander into the last room.

_Just like the first day of school_, she says with a shrug, settling down on the king-sized bed. _New faces, new people, new environment. _

_You'll do fine, _he says softly and kisses her lightly on her forehead.

I avert my eyes, and I find the man beside me doing the same. "How do you know Sara?"

"We worked together, and Grissom was my boss."

He doesn't look familiar, but he probably worked on my case. He has kind eyes, like Sara's. I don't ask how he got here, because some people still get uncomfortable talking about death even when they're dead themselves.

_I keep thinking, 'what if this isn't a good idea?' I mean, what does a quantum physicist even do?_ she asks almost exasperatedly, collapsing onto the bed.

He looks thoughtful for a while. _Build state-of-the-art roller coasters for enthusiasts like me? _

She groans, and he lies down next to her, the smile evaporating off his lips. _If you want to go back, we could. The Undersheriff wouldn't refuse you – they're short-staffed as it is. We can go back anytime, Sara. _

And in a sudden moment of clarity, it hits me. They look different not because they actually _look _different, but because they look _happy_. His eyes are brighter, and she doesn't carry an air of past ghosts around with her now.

Are you happy now, Sara? I ask her through the screen, as if I could telepathically send messages from Heaven to Seattle.

And I swear, she looks right at me for a second before turning back to Grissom. _There's something I've never told you. _

He stills, along with both of us, and she takes a deep breath and continues. _I attended a Forensic Science lecture by accident. The lecturer, he talked about ghosts and science. My mind wasn't even set on becoming a CSI…it just _happened_. And now I'm tired of the ghosts, but not the science. Right now, I'm about to do what I've always wanted to do, with you by my side. I don't want to go back, Gil. I'm happy here. _

Her eyes are bright; he takes her in his arms and strokes the back of her head lightly.

"Don't go back," I whisper, because I know there are very few ways for a person to 'unsee' us, but Sara has achieved that. She's happy, well, _content_, and she'll never see another ghost if she continues this way. With Grissom, I'm sure she'll never need to see another one in her lifetime.

"I miss them," he says, and I turn to find him smiling, albeit a sad smile. "But it's about time this happened to them."

"You've known them long?"

"Yeah. They're like family – Grissom was the father I never had. He…he was there for me when I died."

I stare at him, feeling a slight shiver at the similarities. "Sara was there for me when it was my time."

He frowns, and I can almost see his brain extracting memories from behind his clear eyes.

"I'm Cammie Brookston," I say, extending a hand and his eyes flash in recognition. I feel like I have a bond with him already, and there's also something telling me that we'll spend many other occasions watching Sara and Grissom here on the monitors, together.

"I'm Warrick," he says, taking my hand and giving it a firm shake. "Warrick Brown."

--

**A/N**: Thank you, Keegan, for the awesome beta job throughout this story. Well, this is the end, and I hope it answers all your questions. It's been fun (and tiring at times) writing this, and thank you to all those who stuck with it through the first chapter. It really means a lot to me. Also, for the person who nominated a story of mine (_Keeping Forever_) for the CSIFF Awards, thank you!


End file.
